


A Coming of Hattricks

by openmoments



Category: Football - British, La Liga - Fandom, Real Madrid CF - Fandom
Genre: Birthday Sex, M/M, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmoments/pseuds/openmoments





	A Coming of Hattricks

They’re playing _Ai Se Eu Te Pego_ over and over and laughing hysterically every time it starts back up and Marcelo has jumped up on the couch to dance, holding his hand to his mouth like a microphone, pretending to be Michel Teló. 

The beautifully crafted cake has been demolished hours ago, only a few pieces left on the platter, icing still left clinging to the sides, a bit on some people’s faces and he knows for a fact that there’s some at the tips of Xabi’s beard, and he smirks when he sees that Sergio and Iker have matching smears on corresponding parts of their mouths. 

Marcelo grabs his hand as he walks by the couch and Pepe’s there out of the blue and the two of them have him up on the couch and someone’s hit replay and the opening beats of _Ai Se Eu Te Pego_ start over, and he can hear a few groans erupting from his friends but Marcelo finds a pillow that he’d knocked down earlier and throws it in the general direction and proceeds to dance, singing the words and even over the music Cris can hear how off he is and he’s laughing and dancing and his couch is going to be so wrecked later but it’ll be worth it.

  
_Nossa, nossa  
Assim você me mata  
Ai, se eu te pego,  
Ai, ai, se eu te pego_   


  


He sees him out of the corner of his eye. He’s in the corner with Kaká, leaning against the wall, sipping on a bottle of water, chuckling at something that’s just been said. He looks up right then, and Cris knows he’s been caught staring, so he winks in his direction and then tumbles to the ground as Marcelo gets too wild with his dancing and arm flailing and the three of them end up in a mess on the floor.

As Cris picks himself up, the only thing he has in his head is the first two lines of the song, running around, _“ Nossa, nossa. Assim você me mata.”_

He untangles himself from Marcelo and Pepe who protest before shrugging it off quickly and finding Karim in the corner, all by himself, and proceed to poke and prod him into getting up and dancing with them.

Mesut’s standing with one foot flat on the wall, head leaning back against the wall and Cris likes seeing him like this, sleepy and comfortable and Kaká’s smiling down at him in that way that makes everyone feel like they’re special and perfect and like they can do things. 

Kaká’s the first to see him, and his smile widens and Cris’s heart contracts for just a moment, before it reminds itself that it’s already healed and that it’s alright to smile back.  
He leans towards him and Kaká slips his arm around his waist, whispers, “Happy Birthday,” and Cris shivers slightly at the feeling of his breathe on his ear, before Kaká nods to the couch, and says, loudly this time, “That’s going to be a mess to clean up in the morning.”

Cris smiles fondly and shrugs, “It’s Marcelo and Pepe,” and it sums everything up so well, because they are: they’re Marcelo and Pepe and they’re children in grown men’s bodies who replay songs over and over and never get tired of them and dance on people’s couches, and just know that things will end alright in the end.

His eyes dart over to Mesut who’s eyes are drifting over everyone, his smile widening when he sees Karim trying to escape learning the dance and José and Gonzalo are curled up in the corner, Gonzalo’s head on José’s lap as they talk with Esteban, who’s hair’s hanging over into his face. 

He can finally feel Cris’s eyes on him and his head tilts to the side just a little, and he smiles, but doesn’t say anything, just smiles, and Cris wants to lean over and see what that smile tastes like, but there’s too many people and Kaká’s arm is still around his waist and he’s still there and even though it’s alright now (gods, it took so long for it to be alright), Cris still doesn’t know if it’s alright. So he just smiles back and Kaká says something about how he and baby Cris will have to go over at some point for dinner, and Cris agrees. He agrees with bright eyes and a hand on his shoulder and he can feel Mesut’s eyes on him and they’re burning the side of his face and he doesn’t know where to go from here.

But Kaká smiles and then looks at Mesut, tells him it’s been nice talking to him, and they’ll have to continue their conversation, the one Cris so rudely interrupted, later. Cris laughs and fakes being wounded and sees Kaká to the door, hugs him, pulls him close and closes his eyes and breathes in the scent that’s so distinctly him, and then watches as he pulls out and drives away. 

Mesut’s still leaning against the wall, the empty water bottle dangling from his fingertips and Cris smiles at him, loves the way he looks right then, with his shaggy hair and pants hanging low, a sliver of skin visible between his T-shirt and jeans, his white athletic socks stark against the dark wash of his pants. 

He resists the urge to go over and push him up against the wall, hands on Mesut’s hip, bite into the side of his neck. 

Instead, he goes into the living room and starts putting pillows back on the couch, watches from the corner of his eye as Sami makes his way to Mesut, hand on his shoulder, sliding down his arm, and Cris turns away, quirks a smile when he sees Marcelo and Pepe now leaning against each other, propped up against the wall and quietly singing out of tune to each other. 

Esteban’s in the corner dozing and Karim’s head is in his lap, softly snoring, Esteban lovingly patting his bald head as Calleti and Pipita are curled up together, Calleti’s hair still stuck hedgehog high into the air. 

He surveys the rest of the scene and knows that the rest will just have to get picked up in the morning, when his friends are no longer scattered on the floor and in the way. He’s opened up the guest rooms to all of them, but figures from the way they’re all already passed out on the floor, most of them won’t make it there. 

Suddenly the music gets turned down and he looks over his shoulder at Sergio who looks up through the hair hanging in his face, smiles and shrugs before glancing at the group of footballers sleeping on each other. As much as Sergio might be anything, at his core, he’s caring.

Finally, finally he makes his way over to where Sami and Mesut are still standing together and even though Mesut’s told him more times than he can count that he and Sami are friends, that they’re just friends, Cris still gets a niggling at the back of his head. He won’t admit it, but there’s a part of him that just knows that, if Mesut weren’t with him, he’d be with Sami. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows it’s true, and knowing that...

...knowing that Mesut could always choose someone else and didn’t, that he could and won’t, he can’t explain how that feels. 

Mesut smiles when he sees him over Sami’s shoulder, who in turn turns around and smiles sleepily.

“I’m just on my way out,” Sami tells him, voice quiet and sleepy.

“You don’t have to,” Cris tells him as Mesut slides off the walls and slips his hands around his waist, “I’m pretty sure none of the other guys aren’t going to be using any of the rooms, so you’re more than welcome to use one of them.”

Sami smiles wider, eyes darting down to Mesut before glancing back at Cris, “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll head home.” 

Cris can’t resist the smile blooming across his face and resists looking down at Mesut and instead walks Sami to the door, the same path he’d taken with Kaká less than an hour ago, untangling himself from Mesut as he does so, who pads along behind the two of them.

“Thanks for coming, Sami,” he says as he hands Sami his jacket. “ And thanks for the present,” he says, looking at the haphazard pile of gifts in the corner. 

Sami smiles, big and toothy, “I’m sure you and baby Cris will have fun with them,” Sami says as he nods to the matching Real Madrid basketball jerseys he’d bought.  
“I’m sure we’ll be the most adorable fans in the crowd,” Cris confirms before Sami makes his way out the door and waves from down the pathway before he gets in his car.

Cris closes the door and barely turns around before Mesut has him pressed up against the back of the door.

“I’ve been waiting to do that all night,” he says after he pulls away and Cris has to smile has he settles his hands on Mesut’s hips.

“Well, you’ll have to wait a little longer,” he says apologetically, as he glances over Mesut’s shoulder, “We still have guests,” and leans in to kiss the pout away from his mouth.

“We could always give them a show,” Mesut says after Cris pulls away, eyebrows raised suggestively and Cris wants to know when he got so bold. But the image slips into his mind and he knows Mesut can tell, knows it by the way he moves his hips, grinding up against his own.

He pushes a hand through Mesut’s dark hair, before letting it rest at the back of his head, “As much as that’s tempting,” he admits, “I don’t think they’d enjoy it as much as we’d like.”

Which is a bold faced lie and they both know it but Mesut simply rolls his eyes and steps back with a final push of his hips against Cris’s as the baby monitor on top of one of the speakers lets out the thin sound of baby Cris’s crying.

“I’ll go put him back to sleep,” Mesut tells him and that just does something to Cris’s heart that he can’t explain so he does the only thing that comes to mind and grabs Mesut’s face between his hands and closes the distance between them.

His teeth grab onto his bottom lip and Cris can feel his intake of breath and chases it with his tongue before Mesut pulls away, his eyebrow raised.

“Your son’s crying and you want to make out?” and the comment might normally upset him, just a bit, but he can hear the teasing in Mesut’s voice and he knows exactly what the dark shade of his eyes means so he just winks.

Mesut rolls his eyes, “Hurry up with the rest of the guys then. It shouldn’t take long to get him back to bed,” and he winks before he walks away. 

Cris watches as Mesut makes his way up the stairs and shakes his head as he looks back at the living room and rolls his eyes at the smirk Sergio’s throwing at him. 

His friend walks over to where he’s still leaning against the door and teases, “Looks like someone’s getting lucky tonight.”

“It’s my birthday, of course I am,” he replies cheekily.

“Can’t say I’m not jealous,” Sergio admits as his gaze darts up the stairs where Mesut’s just disappeared and Cris doesn’t want to examine the zinging feeling he feels going down his spine and instead raises his eyebrows.

“Not that I’m going to try anything, obviously,” Sergio states, but it’s with a wink and that fucking shit eating grin of his and Cris isn’t exactly sure he believes it but let’s it go.

They look across into the living room and their teammates are still sprawled out across the floor and Cris wonders how it took less than half an hour for everyone to go from loud and rowdy to snoring on the floor but then again, it doesn’t surprise him. Celebrating in the locker room to sleeping on the bus takes about that time. 

He looks over at Sergio who shrugs and they both cross over, quietly, and start rousing their teammates before helping them walk to various rooms. 

Marcelo looks up at them, his braces glinting as he smiles sleepily, eyes still mostly shut as Cris and Sergio slip their arms under his arms as they lead him to one of the guest bedrooms.

“Happy birthday, Cris,” Marcelo mumbles as they tuck him in and Cris really is glad he’s got him, as crazy as he is sometimes. Pepe gets tucked in next to him and when they get back to the living room, Calleti and Pipita are attempting to help each other to one of the other rooms, but like the blind leading the blind and they don’t make it very far and Sergio laughs softly as he untangles them and Cris grabs Pipita and follows behind Sergio and Calleti to the last room down the hall.

Sergio grabs his coat from the hall closet even as Cris tells him he can stay for the evening.

Sergio smirks as he slips his arms through his coat, “If I had had more, I’d say yes, but knowing what you and Mesut are getting up to,” and he lets the rest of the sentence hanging in the air and Cris gets that tingling down his spine again.

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead says, “Thanks for coming,” and, “See you tomorrow,” as he hugs Sergio and holds the door for him, watches him get in his car and speed away. 

Sighing, he drags a hand down his face and tells himself he’ll deal with the rest of the clean up later. Instead, he thinks about Mesut, upstairs, and a smile creeps on his face as he locks the door and takes the stairs, two at a time.

First he passes his room to check baby Cris’s but when he peers into the crib and sees it empty he frowns before heading back down the hallway and to his room.

“Mesut, where’s...,” and the sentence drops, the rest of the words caught somewhere in his throat as he sees his son sleeping peacefully on Mesut, head tucked under his chin and Mesut looks up from where he’s laying back on the bed.

“He just looks so comfortable,” he explains with a smile before looking back down at the sleeping baby.

“You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?” Cris mutters as he makes his way across the bedroom, crawling across the bed and laying down next to Mesut on his side, head propped on the palm of his hand. He traces the shell of his son’s ear with his pointer finger, once again wondering how he got all of it. 

Mesut smiles down at him, all sweetness and slightly sleepy and doesn’t answer because Cris knows and they lay like that for awhile, with baby Cris’s chest rising up and down rapidly, Mesut’s hand cupping his back, Cris just drinking the two of them, together.

“We should put him to bed before he wakes up,” Mesut finally says, breaking the silence and looking sideways at Cris, slightly sleepy and happy and Cris wonders if maybe he’s not going to get lucky but then there’s a wink thrown his way and he grins.

“We really, really should,” he says, pushing himself up to take his son and Mesut shakes his head.

“It’s alright, I’ll put him back to bed,” he assures Cris, using his heels to push against the edge of his bed and slide himself off.

Cris lets him get to the door before hopping off the bed anyways, takes four long strides to catch up to Mesut, placing his hand on his hip before he gets to exit the room.

“I might as well come with,” he whispers against Mesut’s ear, knows he’s smiling, and follows him to the baby’s room.

They get to the room and Mesut lays the baby in his crib, rolls him onto his stomach and slips the blanket half way up his back. He stays by the side of the crib and Cris presses up behind him, slips his arm underneath Mesut’s and brushes the tips of his fingers over the top of his son’s head, down to the back of his neck, before slipping down his chin, still marveling at the softness of his skin, at how plump his face still is. 

“He’s beautiful,” Cris murmurs into the curve of Mesut’s ear.

Mesut leans back against him, angles his head back so he can take a glance at Cris, “He takes after you,” he whispers before kissing the edge of Cris’s chin, followed by a quick swipe of his tongue, before turning around completely and placing his hands on Cris’s shoulders, before sliding his hands up Cris’s throat, to cradle his chin. 

“He takes after you,” he repeats and Cris pulls his hand off of his son, mirrors Mesut’s hands on his face and he can just make out the glint of Mesut’s eyes in the light slipping in from the hallway and he wants to say something, but can’t move the words past the lump in his throat.

Instead he brushes the pads of his thumbs over his bottom lip, whose tongue slips out and laps at the tips. Cris can’t take it anymore, and moves his thumbs before crushing Mesut’s mouth under his own. 

It’s sweet and brief and free of tongues or teeth but they still pull apart slightly breathless and Mesut’s mouth curves in a slight smile and says, cheekily, “Maybe we should take this out of the baby’s room?” 

Not trusting his voice, Cris nods and starts away, but Mesut grabs his hand and stops, leans back over the railing of the crib, places a butterfly kiss on the top of Cris Jr’s head and Cris leans back up against him, catches him whispering, “Ich liebe dich. Schlafen friedlich. Wir sehen uns am Morgen,” and while he doesn’t understand what it means, he knows it makes something tender bloom up inside his chest and can’t resist pulling Mesut’s hand from the railing and pulls him out of the door and into the hallway. 

He presses the smirking Mesut up against the wall, hips flush against his smaller ones, bites back the low moan that threatens to spill out of his mouth at the sight of Mesut’s tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip before drawing it into his mouth. 

Cris pushes his left hand into the hair over Mesut’s right ear, slips it to the back of his head, cups it there. His right hand moves down to cradle his hip, sneaks it under the fabric of his t-shirt, just under the waistband of his jeans, thumbing the sharp hipbone he finds there.

“You’re taking your sweet time,” Mesut finally teases as he slips his hands up Cris’s back, blunt nails dragging lightly up and down the muscle there, drawing him closer.

Cris raises his eyebrow, watches as Mesut’s tongue sneaks back out and instead of replying chases it back into his mouth and feels their teeth clack together and it hurts just a little, but Cris ignores it because at that moment Mesut bucks his hips up, lifts himself up on his toes and presses Cris closer using the hands up on his shoulders.

Cris pulls away for a second, presses his forehead against Mesut’s, his heart beating against his ribcage, breathe coming out quickly.

“Wow,” he breathes, “You’re gonna kill me that way,” finishes and Mesut raises his eyebrows.

“Are you quoting Ai Se Eu Te Pego to me?” he asks and Cris laughs, before leaning forward and grabbing his earlobe with his teeth, pulling it into his mouth and sucking on it, and he can feel Mesut’s body shiver at the feeling of it.

His left hand moves from the back of his head and tugs on his hair, long, and he wraps it around his fingers, pulls his head back, moves his mouth from his ear to his jaw, down his chin before biting down his throat, moving to the tendon in his neck, sucking a bruise into the spot there. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he breathes into the hollow of his neck and moves his hand from his head down to his hips, cradles them and then grips the edges of his shirt before hauling it over his head and dropping it on the floor.

“Outside your son’s room, Cris? Really?” but it’s said breathlessly and Cris can feel Mesut’s nails digging into his shoulders, and he smirks against his throat as he then slides down, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers work the other and Mesut’s hands move from his shoulders and into his hair, gripping the short ends.

“My son’s just glad his dad’s finally getting laid,” Cris replies before he switches to the other nipples, biting it.

“You might not with that attitude,” and Cris is glad he’s so good at stopping Mesut’s thought processing because he can’t imagine not getting laid right now.

Cris drops down to his knees, now eye level with Mesut’s hips, visible over the top of his jeans and leans forward, pressing kisses to each of them in turn, before licking stripes up and down over the left one, before blowing on it, before biting on it, sucking the skin into his mouth.

Mesut threads his hands back into his hair, can’t help the moan that slips out of his mouth, presses Cris’s mouth closer to his hips, bucks his hips up. 

“God, you’re so fucking beautiful like that,” he says and Cris smiles against his skin, glad he’s gotten over his weirdness at getting on his knees, loves the reaction Mesut gives him every time he does it. 

He can feel Mesut’s erection against the side of his face, and he turns his head, just a fraction, mouths at the fabric there and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breathe above him.

“Bedroom?” Mesut asks and it’s strained and tense and Cris pushes himself up, crushes their mouths together, wanting to touch everything he can, while tugging him along the wall, Mesut’s feet tripping over each other, tongues twisting against each other.

They knock into the doorframe and Cris laughs against Mesut’s mouth, just a slight breathe apart and Mesut’s tugging his shirt off in that space, drops it on the floor and they’re finally in the room and Cris moves to push him onto the bed, but Mesut stops all of a sudden, twirls them around and it’s Cris who ends up flat on his back, bouncing a fraction as he lands. 

His arms feel empty and he looks up, confused and Mesut just shakes his head, eyes blown up wide and lust filled, bite marks dotting his neck and bruises blooming dark against his hips. 

He takes slow steps to close the distance between the bed, places his hands on Cris’s thighs and leans over, kisses him sweet and slow and Cris wants to know what happened in the last thirty seconds.

As if reading his mind, Mesut pulls away, “You’re the birthday boy,” and it’s filled with such promise that Cris licks his lips in anticipation.

Mesut lowers his mouth back down, kisses him slowly, all lips and softness and then trails his mouth down the corner of Cris’s mouth, his chin, his neck, stops to pay special attention to his collar bone, gets distracted by his shoulders and sucks a haphazard constellation of bruises across his right now, soothes them with his tongue.

He lifts his head up and quickly moves from standing between Cris’s knees to placing his on either side of Cris’s hips, ass settled comfortably on his thighs. His hands start tracing patterns on the warm skin of his chest and torso and fuck, Cris has never seen Mesut like this. Not in the last four months they’ve been together. He likes it, he likes it a lot...

...and the thought stops there because Mesut’s mouth is back on him, moving down his chest, tongue tracing each of his ribs, pressing soft kisses across his belly before his tongue follows the pale line of hair that disappears into his too tight pants. He pants and is sure he’s asking for more, tone bordering on begging because Mesut looks up, smirks, and then gives him a kiss, bites on his lip, hard, before heading back down, paying the same attention to his hips that Cris paid to his earlier. 

“Fuck Mesut,” and it’s breathless and he’s staring at his ceiling and his hands are blindly reaching for his head, trying to press it further down, “You trying to kill me?” 

“Is it working?” and fuck, it is. 

Finally, finally, Mesut sits back on his thighs, his hands make quick work of his belt, pop the button and he can hear the quiet snick of his zip being drawn down before Mesut slithers down and Cris breathes sharply as his ass slides over his dick, still encased in his pants. He looks up, sees Mesut’s raised eyebrows before his hands slip under the band of his jeans on either side of his hips and slides them down his thighs, over his knees, sliding to his own in the process and Cris swears he gets harder at the sight of Mesut’s dark hair visible between his knees. 

He props himself up on his elbows to watch Mesut push his pants off his calves and over his feet. Feels him slip his sock over his feet and flops back on the bed with a groan straining out of his chest when he feels Mesut placing kisses along the side of his feet, mouth slick and travelling up his ankles, bites soft and quick, jumping from left to right and back again. Kisses pressed up against the back of his calves and fuck, he doesn’t know how and he likes his sex hot and fast and now but this, fuck, this. It’s killing him in the best possible way imaginable. 

Finally Mesut reaches his knees, plants kisses on both of them before spreading them apart, shuffles into the space between them and Cris manages to get up on his elbows, focuses on trying to breathe, trying to focus on his gaze on the way Mesut is kissing the inside of his thighs, teasing him and he moans, “Please Mesut,” feels the smile against his thigh more than sees it, and is rewarded with Mesut mouthing his cock through his boxers, struggles three times and manages to sit up, threads his hands through Mesut’s hair, pushes his face closer, his eyes slide shut and when Mesut slides his tongue on the fabric, along the length of his cock, then back up again, soaking the fabric with his saliva before pushing a puff of air over it, the feeling going straight to Cris’s toes.

“So,” and Cris tries to focus on what Mesut’s saying, shakes his head and opens his eyes, looks down between his legs and Mesut’s tongue darts out to trace along the length of his cock one more time before continuing, “for your birthday present,” and he repeats the gesture going back up and Cris’s fingers curl tightly into the comforter, “I’m going to,” and Cris grits his teeth as Mesut’s tongue makes another pass, the delicate movement of his tongue along his cock driving him crazy, “make you cum,” and Cris mutters, “I fucking hope so,” under his breathe and Mesut laughs, his hand squeezes the back of his calf, and he continues, “three times,” and he swears to God stars spark behind his eyes when he hears that.

He licks his lips, tries to speak, repeats the gesture, before trying again, “You’re going to what?” and Mesut laughs, the puffs of air against the wet fabric contrasting with how hot his dick is.

“You heard me,” is all Mesut says before his hands hook under the band of Cris’s boxers and Cris automatically shifts his hips up and Mesut quickly tugs them off and Cris lets out a sigh when his cock jumps out of its confines and up against his stomach and his hand moves to grab it but Mesut’s hand clamps down on his wrist, places it back on the bed and whispers, “No, me,” and then Cris feels his mouth, warm and wet and perfect on the tip of his cock, tongue playing with his slit and Cris moves his hands from the bed back into Mesut’s hair, grips the strands tightly and his hips buck up.

He doesn’t know exactly what it is he’s saying, his mind’s so fucking clouded, but he’s pretty sure it’s something along the lines of, “Jesus fucking Christ,” and “Your mouth,” and “Mesut,” and “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?” 

Mesut moves his mouth down his shaft before moving back up, tongue swirling around the head before sliding flat down the vein on the underside and Cris doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on.

He opens his eyes and looks down, vision blurred with lust and manages, “You look so beautiful,” he says and he does, Mesut does, mouth full of his cock, lips stretched out, spit making it’s way down his chin. 

He can feel Mesut pull back off his cock, feel him suck in a breathe before taking it back into his mouth, swallowing it all the way down, and Cris sees stars behind his eyelids. As Mesut slides back down, his teeth graze along the sensitive skin and that’s all Cris needs and he grips Mesut’s hair more tightly, bucks his hips back up into Mesut’s mouth and moans his name as he comes, but Mesut quickly places his hands firmly on his hips, pushes them back down against the bed and pulls off his cock. 

Cris opens his eyes, ready to ask what he’s doing, but then he sees himself cumming over Mesut’s face, whose eyes are closed, and his mouth goes dry at the sight of his eyelashes being covered, cum dripping down his cheeks, his mouth, off his chin, a drop splattering on his chest. 

He takes his thumb, sweeps it over Mesut’s bottom lip before slipping it into his mouth and his breathe hitches in the back of his throat as he sucks on it, tongue curling around it. Mesut’s eyes are still closed and he bites his lip as he pulls his thumb out, sweeps it over Mesut’s eyelashes, the cum collecting on his thumb and he feeds it to Mesut’s mouth, whose tongue curls around it again, sucking it off. 

Something catches in his chest and he doesn’t know where it comes from but this...this is perfect, the way Mesut sucks on his thumb, the way he gets to clean his face, the way he’s still there, on his knees, the way his mouth is swollen and red and...

...and he slips his hands under Mesut’s armpits, hauls him up onto his lap, and kisses him, tastes himself on Mesut’s tongue and groans when their teeth clang, when Mesut buries his hands into his hair. 

He pulls away for a moment, waits for Mesut’s eyes to open and when they do, he smiles at him, runs his hand down the side of his face, caresses it, before he whispers hoarsely, “Fuck Mesut, that was...,” and he doesn’t know how to say it, tries it again, “You were beautiful. That was fucking perfect,” and the way Mesut smiles is filled with relief and happiness and Cris kisses the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Mesut says as he tilts his head, “but,” and he wiggles his eyebrows, “I’m not done,” and Cris has no idea how people think he’s so innocent and naive because this, this is not innocent or naive and his cock twitches in interest and he knows Mesut can feel it against his still jean clad ass because he raises his eyebrows.

Cris presses kisses down Mesut’s jaw, licks at some of the white still clinging to his face, his fingers tracing lightly up and down his side until he reaches the fabric of his pants, tugs on the belt loops.

“You’re still wearing pants,” and he doesn’t care that it’s obvious, he just wants Mesut out of them and before he can say anything, he’s popping the button on them and pulling down the zip, hands slipping under the band of his boxers. He slides them around, cups Mesut’s ass, squeezes and whispers, “I want you naked,” and Mesut’s hands are on his wrists, tugging his hands out of his pants.

“I think I can do that,” and slides off of Cris’s lap, slips his own hands under the waist band of his boxers and Cris leans forward, elbows on his knees, watches as Mesut slowly, slowly pushes them down over the rest of his hips and when his cock jumps up against his stomach, hard and red and leaking with pre come, Cris hisses, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. 

Mesut’s dark eyes jump to his and he smiles, continues to watch him, dead in the eye, as he pushes the rest of his pants down, over his thighs, bumping over his knees, past his thighs until they’re resting in a pool at his feet and he steps out of them. Cris reaches for him but Mesut moves back, tutting. 

Cris groans, hands fisting in the sheets in frustration as Mesut lifts first one of his feet, slides his hands flat into his sock, and slowly peels it off before he drops it on top of his boxers and jeans before repeating the gesture on the other foot. 

He steps back towards the bed and Cris reaches for him but Mesut once again grabs his wrists, not allowing him to touch him. 

“You’re the birthday boy,” he repeats and the uses his chin to point to the head of the bed, “and you should move up there,” and Cris has never heard that anything like that from Mesut in the bedroom and it sends a spark down his spine, makes his toes curl. 

Instead of asking why, Cris just backs up until his back is up against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him and then he cocks his head to the side and bites his lip, “You going to join me?” and when Mesut ignores him and walks to the bedside table, pulls out the lube before climbing onto the bed and crawling between Cris’s knees and then resting back on his heels. 

Cris thinks he knows where this is going and it sends lust running through him, his cock starting to take interest in what’s going on once more, even more so when Mesut pops the top of the lube and he goes to drizzle it on his fingers before Cris stops him, covering the top of the lube.  
“Wha-?” and Cris can see the confusion in Mesut’s eyes and smiles as he says nothing, just grabs his hand and, looking him in the eyes, slips his first two fingers into his mouth and sucks on them obscenely, watches as Mesut’s eyes widen. 

His tongue slides around them, biting lightly on the tips before sucking them all the way down, to where they meet his hand, coating them with saliva as much as he can before letting them drop from between his lips. 

Mesut stares at his fingers for a moment before slithering down between Cris’s legs, kisses the inside of his thighs, nips until he gets to his cock and presses kisses down the length of it and then Cris feels one finger pressing up against his entrance and his eyes flutter at the feeling of Mesut’s wet finger circling against the muscle there before pressing in, and then he hisses at the burn that comes with it. 

The finger recedes before pushing back in, just a bit farther in, and Mesut keeps it up until it’s up to his first knuckle before he goes back to kissing the inside of Cris’s thigh, biting it and smoothing it with his tongue. Cris’s eyes slide shut and then widen when he feels the second finger join.

“You’re doing so well, you’re so tight,” he can barely hear Mesut whispering to him as he pushes the second finger in farther through the tight circle of muscle and Cris pushes his hips down, can’t resist the urge to have more, to have them pushed further and can hear Mesut chuckle.

“God, I wish you could see yourself Cris. Stretched out and so tight,” and just the way that Mesut says it, the way he says it so reverently, Cris believes him.

Suddenly Cris feels empty and opens his eyes to see Mesut sitting back on his heels, watches him squirt lube on his three fingers and when Mesut turns his attention back to him, he lifts his ass in the air and then gasps out loud when he feels three fingers at his entrance, ignores the burn to push down on Mesut’s fingers, wants him so much it aches, his hands grabbing for him and then Mesut’s there, breathe warm as it fans over his face and then their tongues are tangling and Cris can still taste himself on Mesut’s tongue, but he can also taste Mesut, dark and warm and perfect, underneath it.

Mesut nips at his lips before biting down at the same time as he curls his fingers and Cris bucks his hips and moans loudly, lewdly and then pants out, “I want you. Now,” and is glad Mesut doesn’t make a big deal of it, just slips his fingers out, lubes himself up before pulling on Cris’s thighs and sliding him down the bed so he’s flat on his back, lifts his left leg up and presses it against his chest and presses a kiss to his calf.

“Cris,” and the way Mesut whispers it, Cris has never heard his name said that way before. Before he attempts to think about it, Mesut likes himself up and then pushes in, slowly and Cris closes his eyes, bites his lip at the feeling of himself being stretched even more, the blunt head of Mesut’s cock pressing through the stretched muscles, before he pauses for a moment, asks, “Are you okay?” and it’s such an absurd question because he’s never felt so fucking whole.

“God, yes, Mesut, yes,” and he manages to open his eyes through the sweat and the lust and the want that’s blurring his vision, focuses on Mesut’s face and pushes his hips down. 

“More, I want you,” he pushes out between his dry lips before licking them and Mesut gives a firm thrust and Cris can’t help the sounds that come out of his mouth, sighs at the loss when Mesut backs out, just a fraction before thrusting back in further and Cris wants it, wants it now and pushes his hips back down to meet him and God, he never imagined that Mesut could feel so good, that this could feel so good and..

....and then Mesut’s in, all the way and keens, has never felt this full, briefly wonders why this hasn’t happened before and the Mesut pulls all the way out before slamming back into him and hits that spot and Cris sees nothing but stars and his dick is aching and he wants Mesut to just keep going.

And he does, pulling out and slamming back in, pace even and firm and Cris moves his hand onto his cock, needs to relieve the familiar pressure that’s building up there, but his hand is brushed away from Mesut who tells him breathlessly, “No, not yet,” and he whines, the sound high and needy in the back of his throat. 

He feels Mesut’s teeth nipping at the side of his calf and grabs for him blindly, manages to grab his ear and pull him down, their mouths crashing and his leg is over his shoulder which pushes Mesut deeper inside him and he moans against his mouth and there’s the pressure of Mesut’s belly against his cock and the way he’s still rocking against him, it feels so good.

“Please, faster, more, Mesut pleas,” and he knows he’s begging and doesn’t care and Mesut thrusts once, twice, three more times, and the drag of his stomach against his cock and the way he’s biting on his bottom lip and Cris is coming between them, sticky and warm and with Mesut’s name falling off his lips. 

Mesut pulls out and clamps a hand around his own balls, stops himself from coming and Cris looks at him dazedly, tongue thick in his mouth as he stares, doesn’t know if he’s ever seen anything so fucking hot and can’t come up with anything.

“That was,” he starts and he can’t think of anything and just runs his fingers from Mesut’s wrist to his elbow and back again before wrapping his hand around his forearm and pulling him down to lay next to him.

Mesut kisses his forehead and smiles, “I’m glad you liked it,” he whispers and drags his fingers through the mess on Cris’s stomach, before feeding it to him, and Cris slowly draws them into his mouth and sucks them off lewdly before smiling around them and then dropping them from his mouth to lean down and kiss Mesut.

“But why didn’t you come?” he whispers against his mouth and he can feel Mesut’s eyelashes flutter against his cheek and he pulls back to look at him, his face red and eyes wide and lust blown and wanting.

He pushes his hand through his dark hair, tugging on the ends, waiting for an answer and smiles when Mesut bites on his lips, all of a sudden shy.

“I want,” Mesut starts and then hesitates for a moment, and then looks at him, “I want to come with you inside me,” and even though he’s said it before Cris still sucks his breathe in because it never fails to blow him away, that Mesut has this want, has this desire, still. 

Cris groans at the thought, “God Mesut, you really are trying to kill me?” he asks as he buries his face into his neck and can taste the sweat that’s hiding there. 

“Is it working?” and Cris bites at the skin there, smiles when he feels Mesut moan. 

“I’ll hold it off to make you come,” he promises, voice low and thick and smiles against his collar bone when Mesut bucks his hip up against his side, cock thick against his thigh. 

They lay there like that for several minutes, with Cris running his hand down Mesut’s side and wondering how he got so lucky, got Mesut, got this, and tilts his head when Mesut brushes soft kisses against his chin, his jaw, his throat as his breathing starts to even out and he starts to come down, stops feeling like he’s run a marathon. 

It’s slow this time. The way that he kisses down from Mesut’s chin down his throat to his collar bone where he sucks a bruise, dips his tongue in the hollow there, before he rolls Mesut onto his back, mouths at his chest, bites on his nipple, sucks it into his mouth blows it until it’s pebble hard and does the same to the other.

He looks up and sees Mesut’s eyes fluttering shut and Cris can feel his cock starting to harden against his thigh and smiles as he kisses his way down to his hips and his grin widens at the sight of the bruises still dark on his skin from where he’d sucked them into his skin earlier and he moves his mouth over them, bites into them and Mesut bucks his hips up at the feeling, and Cris smooths his tongue over the mark before moving over just a space and repeats it, sucking on the area before biting it and smoothing over the area and moving to another spot and repeating the process again.

When he finishes, Mesut’s hips are slick with saliva and he presses his fingers to the sensitive spots he’s just sucked into his skin and Mesut hisses at the feeling and Cris looks at him, a question in his eyes and Mesut nods before his head falls back against the messy bed and his eyes slide shut. 

Cris switches his attention from Mesut’s hip to his dick and wraps his hand around the end of it, and lowers his mouth to the tip of it, sucks it between his lips and Mesut bucks his hips up, trying to get it into his mouth. 

“God Cris,” Mesut whines, hands scrabbling on the sheets and Cris blows a cool puff of hair over the hot skin of his cock and whispers.

“Shhhh,” he soothes against the hot skin that’s next to his cheek and he doesn’t know if Mesut can hear him but he continues, “Shhh, I’ll take care of you,” and he slips his lips back over the head of his cock, wraps his tongue around it and sucks it down into his mouth and let’s Mesut buck up into his mouth, takes the extra length down his throat and when Mesut starts making the sounds that indicate he’s close Cris pulls his mouth off, wraps his hand around his balls and reminds him, “Remember, you want to come with me buried inside you,” and Mesut nods, eyes glassy.

Cris sticks his own fingers into his mouth, wets them thoroughly and pushes Mesut’s feet onto the bed so his knees are in the air and spreads them so that he can shuffle in between them and teases the tight ring of muscle there but not for long because he knows, by now, that Mesut can take this, that he’ll do it gladly and pushes it up to his first knuckle before drawing it back out and sliding it back in and then pushes the second finger in next to it.

It doesn’t take long to stretch Mesut out and Cris’s cock is starting to fill back up again and he wonders how the fuck this is possible but doesn’t question it too much further, scissoring his fingers and closing his eyes at the sounds coming from Mesut’s mouth when he does it. 

He grabs the bottle of lube from where Mesut discarded it on the bed earlier, leaning over him to get it, in the process pushing his fingers further in and Mesut pushes his hips down and Cris kisses him quickly before he slips them out and liberally squirts some into the palm of his hand before he wraps his hand around his cock, jerks it several times as Mesut slowly blinks his eyes open and looks at him, licking his lips when he catches sight of what Cris is doing and that spurs Cris’s hand faster, fills his dick up and he swears to god Mesut should win an award if he does come a third time this evening. 

Cris moves to slide between Mesut’s legs but Mesut manages to push himself up, shakes his head and gestures for Cris to move back to the head of the bed, which he does quickly, even as he’s wondering what Mesut is doing and when his back is back up against the wall and Mesut right there, hand on his dick, a few quick strokes before he climbs onto his lap, guiding Cris’s cock inside him as he slowly lowers himself down onto it.

Cris’s mouth hangs open as he watches Mesut slide onto him, his mouth dry and Mesut’s tight and hot and fucking hell -

“God you’re perfect,” and Mesut’s face is tight and concentrated and he’s biting hard on his bottom lip and Cris can feel him adjusting before he lifts himself up before lowering himself slowly back down. 

He repeats it, starting to go a little more quickly and Cris’s eye lids start to flutter shut but he resists, wants to watch it, watch all of it. The way Mesut’s eyes are screwed tightly shut, his lip between his teeth, the tendons in his neck tight and strained, his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat and he reaches out, touches the tendon in his neck, trails his hand down over his chest, his stomach, his hips until his fingers brush against Mesut’s cock and wraps his hand around it and the way Mesut’s muscles clench around him are his undoing.

He pushes Mesut back who squeaks with surprise and Cris feels himself slip out a fraction but he slams back in and Mesut’s mouth opens in a big ‘O’ and that’s exactly what Cris wanted and he does it again, and he knows the right angle to get Mesut off and he hits his prostate over and over.

Mesut warns him, “I’m going to cum,” loud and strained, head thrown back and he cums with a loud, long moan, sticky and warm between them and Cris has never seen anything so fucking perfect and he pounds into him once, twice and Mesut’s so tight and he goes over the edge and he’s so strung out he doesn’t make a sound, just lands on Mesut’s chest, not caring that he gets cum all over himself in the process. 

 

Cris is positive he must have passed out because he wakes up and he’s stuck to Mesut, who’s carding his fingers softly through his hair, smiling at him, softly and sated and Cris returns the smile as he attempts to push himself up and finds that his arms aren’t working properly.

“That was,” Mesut tells him, and then lets out a puff of air, “You were perfect,” he finally settles on. “I can’t believe you actually came three times,” and Cris is surprised by it as well.

“Well,” he says as he wrangles his fist under his chin and looks at Mesut, “when you’re boyfriend is as fucking brilliant with his fingers, tongue and cock as mine is,” and he trails off and Mesut gets embarrassed, pulls his puffy and bruised lip into his mouth.

“Seriously,” Cris continues seriously and he uses his other hand to slips his fingers through Mesut’s, “that was absolutely amazing. I’ve never,” and he can’t find the words so he just gestures with their joined hands and he knows Mesut knows what he’s trying to say and instead he lifts himself forward, ignores the pull of the drying cum on his stomach and places a chaste kiss on his mouth. 

They lay there for a time, Cris just staring at Mesut, the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheek and the soothing way his fingers are still moving through his hair and it starts lulling him to sleep when suddenly the baby monitor starts going off again and he sighs but Mesut tugs on his hair and smiles, “I’ll get him. I’m less...tired out,” he says with a cheeky smile and Cris rolls his eyes.

“He’s going to think his dad is too busy getting laid to take care of him,” Cris mumbles as he rolls off of Mesut and onto his back.

“We both know that’s not true, so he won’t,” he gets teased and rolls his eyes as Mesut grabs his boxers from the floor and wipes his stomach off with Cris’s dropped t-shirt.

“But, while I’m with him, want to, I don’t know, change the sheets and clean up?” he asks with raised eyebrows, looking pointedly at the mess they’ve made on the bed and Cris’s stomach. 

“I don’t think I can move,” he moans and Mesut shakes his head and Cris smiles at him, “Of course.”

Mesut leaves the room and Cris lays there for a few seconds more before pushing himself up and padding to the bathroom, soaks a towel in the sink and wipes himself clean, takes a look at himself in the mirror and grins at all the bruises and bite marks dotting his skin before heading back to the bedroom and grabbing the sheets and pillows and dumping them off in the corner before covering them with extras from the closet.

By the time he’s settled on fresh pillows and slipped under clean sheets, the only light on the one on the bedside table, Mesut comes back in, his son whimpering on his shoulder, a bottle in his other hand. 

“He wants his Daddy’s attention,” Mesut says with a tired smile and passes him to Cris before disappearing into the bathroom and Cris can hear the tap running and Mesut comes back out, shirtless, before heading Cris’s drawers and pulling a clean white t-shirt from the drawer and slips it on.

“God I love you in my clothes,” Cris tells him as Mesut gets to the foot of the bed and crawls up to Cris’s side.

Mesut doesn’t say anything, just looks up tiredly at him, slips his feet under the comforter and Cris can feel them tangle with his under the blankets. 

“I hope you had a happy birthday,” Mesut says through a yawn and Cris looks at him as he tips the emptying baby bottle farther up.

“Of course I did, you idiot. It was...you were perfect,” he tells him and leans over, presses a kiss to the top of Mesut’s head and then looks back at baby Cris and feels Mesut’s head propped up against his arm and when he looks back down at him, his eyes have slid shut, mouth slightly open, breathe fanning gently across his arm. 

“This is perfect,” Cris mumbles to himself as he slips his arm around the sleeping Mesut’s shoulders, Mesut’s hand coming to rest on his chest, and baby Cris’s own eyelids fluttering gently and Cris knows that, while this...

....while this might not be the most traditional family he envisioned for himself, it is fucking perfect, and it’s his.


End file.
